


rundown and threadbare

by thedevilbites



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Canon Typical Swearing, Character Study (ish), Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, General Lip/Mandy cuteness, Late night randomness, Random scenes, Shit happens as it usually does, Underdeveloped blood kink, angst if you squint, fluff?, i.e Lip swears like a drunken sailor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-04
Updated: 2020-11-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:29:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27389494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilbites/pseuds/thedevilbites
Summary: “Is that—fuck is thatblood?”
Relationships: Lip Gallagher/Mandy Milkovich
Kudos: 7





	rundown and threadbare

**Author's Note:**

> can the Shameless writers go fix their mistake because Lip/Mandy are endgame, Tami can go straight to Hell, and i am in fervent denial

Lip likes to stay unattached. 

He’s aloof. Care-free. Relaxed and easy and fun, and, above all else, a “good lay,” which is ostensibly the highest priority for a teenage boy with an IQ score higher than the digits of their zip code. 

Mandy knows he gets around. It’s no secret. She’s seen him balancing precariously on balcony rails, scaling trees, tumbling his way out of doors in only his boxers with a shoe in one hand, and a mismatched sock in the other. 

It’s all very _quaint._ Coming-of-age. Like he’s some trumped-up heroine in a romance movie, only Mandy has learned long ago that romance is dead, most heroines will pay arguably well to get their dick sucked, and ‘strolling to the cinema to see a movie’ is for snotty rich kids majoring in, like, “Studio Art,” or “Feminist Theory,” or some other bullshit that’s really code for: “I’m eating through my parent’s savings, thank you very much.”

Ugh. _Savings._ Hard to imagine that when she’s sitting diligently in the shadows, symmetrical bruises on her thighs because some customers get—a little _overzealous._ Especially around the holidays.

It’s fine, though, because she has a wad of money stuffed in the frayed elastic of her underwear, and the tips of her stilettos are stained with something very close to blood but—It’s all fine, anyway. 

The point is—what’s the fucking point?

 _Lip._

That’s the point. 

He _is_ the point. 

He can try to be all “emotionless robocop” who fucks and smokes and, now in a different bed, fucks some more—

But—but Mandy can _see._ It’s in the way he looks at her.

She can read between the lines. 

The chain links in the fence around the Gallagher house look like fish scales. Mandy’s always thought so, anyway.

She likes the way they gleam in the damp sunlight, fractions of fractured mirrors winking at her. Begging for her attention.

That’s all she really has, she supposes. Fish scales and dirty mirrors. Certainly nothing pretty to look at. Nothing worth stopping and _inspecting._

She plants her feet on the sidewalk, and buries her hands into the pockets of her coat as if it’ll really help stave off the cold. 

Mandy looks up, catches a glimpse of Lip’s silhouette blur past one of the rotting windows. She’d like to go inside, but the night isn’t over yet. For her, at least. 

All she can do is sigh wearily, and turn her back on the house. 

“Mandy, what the—Jesus fucking Christ, what the fuck are you doing here?” He’s yelling. It’s making her head spin.

She’s never seen him like this before. She’s never seen him so angry.

“L—Lippp—“ _shut the fuck up,_ she wants to say, was _going_ to say, really, but she’s trembling and her teeth are chattering and it feels like ice is running through her veins. Like she’s been poisoned. Like her very _bone marrow_ is infected. Like maybe she’s not getting out of this alive this time. Something warm and sticky is clinging to her forehead. 

Lip is yelling again. “Is that—fuck is that _blood?”_

Shit. She thought she stopped the bleeding.

“Fu—fu—fucking let m-m-me in,” she hisses, obstinately ignoring him, and stumbles forward as Lip practically wrenches the door off of it’s frame to meet her. 

The house smells, well, disgusting, as to be expected, but Mandy has never been so relieved to be _here,_ in this very instant, with Lip, only—only she chose to wear her trashy, four-inch heels today and her feet wobble and shake and cross, and she trips on the very last step. 

She hears: “Mandy—fucking _watch it_ —“ before she nosedives into the pavement. 

Lip catches her. 

Of course he does. 

Mandy sags into his arms on instinct, face buried in the crook of his neck—he’s wearing one of his patented cut-off muscle t-shirts—because he’s warm, so fucking warm, and safe and _strong_ —how come she’s never realized how strong he was?—and then she promptly throws up all over his shoes. 

The stickiness on her forehead feels— _stickier._ Somehow. Maybe heavier, too.

It all speeds up from there. 

Mandy hears someone yelling and then a light turns on and she thinks she’s being moved, but she can’t tell for certain. She feels drugged, and she can’t focus too well—Furniture is being rearranged and she’s being cajoled towards the couch and she thinks she sees Fiona throw a pillow across the room, or maybe that’s V with a very suspicious black duffel bag and things are swimming and dissolving and _slipping_ beneath her eyelids.

Someone’s holding her hand, and it fucking hurts. 

She passes out with his name on her tongue.

“Don’t do that again, Mandy.”

“Do what?” She’s lying on the couch with her feet splayed out in front of her, dead weight on the cushions. 

She opens her eyes, blinks a couple times to adjust to the darkness. Fiona must have turned off the light when she left. 

“Just—” She watches him pinch his eyes shut, shoulders taught and drawn back. He’s not making eye contact. The bandage on her forehead feels heavy, and she knows what he’s looking at. 

“Stay alive, for me, okay?” He says, in that carefully neutral tone he uses when what he’s saying means everything to him. 

Mandy shifts, brings her hand in front of her face so he can’t see her chewing on her bottom lip. 

“Okay,” she murmurs, and it’s suddenly hard to swallow. 

“Lip— _God,_ ” she throws her head back as he pushes her underwear aside with hasty, scrambling fingers. The space between them is nonexistent. They’re both impatient. It’s been a while.

He slides a hand up her thigh while she chants, “Go go, go,” a patronizing twist to her lips, anxious and greedy, edging him to _speed up, do it faster, move_ until he snaps, pries her mouth open, and forces the edge of his tangled bedsheet between her teeth. 

Mandy—Mandy is throbbing and shaking and undeniably, shamelessly _wet._

She thrusts her hips against him, and squeezes her eyes shut tight, temples damp with a sheen of sweat. Her bra is discarded on the floor, there’s a trail of bruises on her neck, and her legs are splayed wide on his bed like she’s a slab of meat. An expensive entrée. A perfectly-seasoned, slender cut of steak. 

“Fucking _eat me,”_ she rasps, or tries to, when Lip does nothing, cunt throbbing and the muscles in her lower abdomen pulsating and writhing and _quivering,_ fingers flexing around the metal bars of the bedframe from when he told her _don’t move,_ voice like cut glass, five minutes ago.

And then—and then he’s _attacking_ her and she can’t tell if he’s using his fingers or his tongue or both. Mandy feels _molten,_ like she’s melting beneath him, and she doesn’t even protest when he stops abruptly and holds her hips still, as if she would run away _now._

She feels his teeth at the crease of her thigh, grazing the pale flesh there like it’s a question and she nods mindlessly on command, hazy and blissful and still pulsing with pleasure.

Lip hesitates for a second—he always does—and then he bites down and she can smell the blood and she’s writhing in the pain and the pleasure and the feeling of his mouth sucking at her skin— _God, the blood,_ she thinks she hears her muffled stutter, delirious, as Lip barks out a scratchy laugh, and digs deeper—as if it were oxygen, as if he needed her to breathe.

She’s laughing and she’s crying and she’s not sure which came first.

She’s inside him now, in more ways than one.

**Author's Note:**

> Landy or Mip?? both have a nice "i've-just-slaughtered-your-mother-with-the-family-dog" ring to them, if you know what i mean...
> 
> @thedevilbites on tumblr, come say hi!


End file.
